Dat Semla
by Canadino
Summary: Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, is a day where lavish feasts prepare people for the coming fast. Sweden wants to take Finland out for Fettisdag but can't seem to find him...what masked murderer is responsible for this?


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: -

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Dat Semla

Something was suspicious; Sweden knew that much as he walked up the cobblestone pathway to Finland's door. The light sprinkling of snow had not been cleared from last night (a relatively good snow fall) from the path, which wouldn't have been too unusual if there had been footprints. It wasn't like Finland not to go outside – at least, Hanatamago wouldn't have let it slide.

The lights were all out and all the windows were dark. Granted, it wasn't completely dark outside yet, as Sweden had hoped to beat the crowds to take Finland out to dinner on _Fettisdag_, but it was unlike him to leave the house without a calming glow of a lamp. The door was locked and Sweden knocked, hearing the solid sound on the other side of the wood.

Something must have happened, and all of Sweden's Finland senses were on high alert. _Laskiainen_ was supposed to be a festive day in Finland's house – he'd walked past several merrymakers on his way here. Might Finland have gone out? That couldn't be; he had called last night to make sure the nation was going to be home at this hour. Finland had said, and he quoted, "Um…five o' clock? I don't have any plans. Why?"

_Something must have happened_. The shadows around Sweden's eyes got a little darker. It must have been Denmark. It was _always_ Denmark. He must have snuck past the border without him noticing to take his _wife_ out. The nerve. To make sure declaring war was totally justified, Sweden called Norway first.

"Denmark? He's trying to get Iceland to make a snowman with him right now. He's gone through his third pair of pants already. Iceland's pretty good with his aim." Norway was quiet for a moment before Sweden heard him add in an undertone toward something happening on the other line, _yes_. "I'm going to have to call you back," he added, before Sweden could say something else. "I've got dinner waged on the winner of this next round."

So Finland was at home. Sweden knocked again and heard a dog barking somewhere. Hanatamago was at home too. Yet no one was answering the door. Mighty suspicious.

Now, Sweden was not proud of this skill, but he had to say he was a pretty good hacker and nothing as stupid as a _door lock_ could stop him. Sure, he could have kicked the door in no problem but that would just cause a big mess and Finland might be mad at him when he came out from wherever he was. There was a key under the decorative statue of a terrier on the doorstep, but the terrier was buried up to his tail in snow and Sweden did not feel the need to dig around to find it. He had tinkered with the lock and managed to open the door when he remembered that he had Finland's key in his wallet.

That was ceremonious.

The foyer was deserted, along with the sitting room next to it. Closing the door behind him, Sweden entered the house, hearing his footsteps reverberate on the walls around him. The house was eerily empty, yet his Finland senses told him the nation was not far away. Calling out would only make the attacker hiding in wait locate him, because he had now concocted a story where there had to be a masked murderer holding his wife hostage. This was unforgivable and although he had forgotten a weapon at home, he was sure he could use anything to kill a man, be it cucumber or salad bowl.

The second floor was devoid of any living thing, and as Sweden descended the stairs, still frowning and thinking up of all the places he could punch a human being for kidnapping his wife, he remembered, of course! Finland was not endowed with the ability of being perpetually quiet, like Norway or Iceland – especially with Hanatamago. He may have been silent up until now, but he would have to make a sound eventually.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, Sweden held his breath and listened.

And.

There.

It.

Was.

The sound, the soft sound of Hanatamago scratching. His stealthy ears pointed to the basement. Of course! If he were a masked murderer, he would hide in the basement too! It was just too obvious. Cracking his knuckles along the way, Sweden almost felt sorry for the poor mortal he was going to be delivering God's divine punishment to – before the Lenten season no less.

There was a faint light in the basement; the door was ajar. Stepping slowly, Sweden had anticipated the element of surprise when his foot fell upon a creaky step. The rustling just out of sight stopped abruptly. Sweden willed every fiber of his being to be patient; he couldn't rush headlong and pummel the murderer. What if he had a knife and by storming down the stairs, caught the murderer by surprise and the murderer hurt Finland? He waited until the rustling started again before creeping down the stairs.

The light was coming from the inside room, the dark musty room where the pipes that went through the house passed by. What an uncomfortable place to hold a hostage! There was a slight low growl from within; blood boiling, Sweden swept into the room, his glasses flashing from the naked light bulb.

Sweden blinked.

He blinked again.

Finland looked up, eyes wide and surprised. On his knees, he was surrounded by an uncountable pile of semla, each flakey pastry looking tastier than the other, the cream in the middle beaten to sweet consistency. Hanatamago was at the edge of the pile, looking fatter than usual, growling to itself as it tackled another pastry.

"Oh, hello," Finland said, a little dazed. There was a smear of cream on his cheek and he was caught cream-handedly, one semla in each hand. Sweden stared at him. His wife had hidden from the world, sitting in the basement, eating _pastries_?

"What are you doing?" Finland shrieked as Sweden plucked him out of the mountain of pastries. "Stop! Look at them!" Flailing around as Sweden picked Hanatamago out by the scruff of the dog's neck, Finland thrashed about. "Look at them! How could you _not_ eat a thousand of them? Here, have one." Attempting to blind Sweden by stuffing a semla in his face, Finland squealed in protest as Sweden carried the two snacking individuals out of the basement. "It's _Laskiainen! _I'm _supposed_ to be eating semla right now! Put me down!"

"We're g'ng t' dinner," Sweden said firmly. Hanatamago barked, before burping a positively doggy belch. "Clean y'rself up."

Finland lamented and Hanatamago puked on the kitchen floor while he was putting his cufflinks on. Forcing the shorter nation, protesting and arguing, to his car, Sweden cleaned up Hanatamago's mess and put the dog in its bed, where it rolled over, fat and satisfied. Sweden returned to the basement to clear up the semla and turn off the light. As he piled all the semla into a bag for later consumption, he examined a creamy pastry. Glancing around him to make sure Finland had not snuck back into the house, Sweden stuffed the dessert in his mouth and chewed triumphantly as he tied a tight knot on the bag. Masked murderer, successfully vanquished.

Owari

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Note: I honestly have reached the point in my life where I don't really about anything anymore, and it's showing in my fanfiction. I am no longer looking at the emotional value to anything, just the laughs. But honestly, look up a picture of a semla. They look so tasty. This is a little late, but better late than never. Thanks for reading!


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